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CONNECTICUT OPINION; The Methodical Ways of a Collector

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THE toothpaste tubes should have sent up a signal. When I began dating my husband, his friends chided him about being forthright and honest. I wondered what deep, dark secrets he was hiding. Did he have a criminal record? Was he suffering from some dreaded disease? As it turned out, his affliction was, and is, obsessive collecting.

When he finally realized our relationship was getting serious, he decided to come clean. In the upstairs bathroom of his house was an old-fashioned bathtub overflowing with empty toothpaste tubes. There must have been hundreds of them and not just any kind; they were all Crest toothpaste tubes.

When I asked the obvious question - why he had such a collection - he really didn't have much of an explanation, other than to say it seemed such a waste to throw away articles that so skillfully displayed the art of American advertising.

Once he confessed, he found it easier to acknowledge some of his other unusual collections. In his early teens, transistor radios were the craze and he found it difficult to part with the dead batteries from them. Remnants of those were present in shoeboxes scattered about his bedroom. He was sure that if he waited long enough, someone would come up with a use for them. He's still waiting.

A bit later in our courtship, I was introduced to his then-current fanaticism, postmark collecting. His goal was to obtain the postmark of every city and town in the United States, which meant an inordinate amount of traveling whenever time and money permitted. Many of our dates were spent searching out well-hidden tiny buildings in small towns that doubled as general stores and post offices.

''It's a great way to see parts of the country we'd never see,'' he would say when I expresed a desire to see a mall I'd never otherwise see. He was also sure that such a collection would one day be extremely valuable.

In his inimitable, methodical way he catalogued the postmarks and placed them in those invaluable shoeboxes, being sure not to confuse them with those that were battery laden. His photographic memory came in handy when people asked him what marks he needed, and he could spout off quickly the gaps in his collection, which finally reached 8,000.

Anyone planning a trip across the country would be given instructions on how to secure a clear, hand-canceled postmark, and often my husband would receive a blank card bearing intriguing names like Bumble Bee, Ariz., or Santa, Idaho, with no sender identified.

I remember when, soon after we became engaged, we took a trip with my parents, and what should have taken two hours took four because of all the post office stops we made. I think my folks were beginning to have some doubts about my future happiness, but how could I not give my heart to a man who sought out postmarks from the towns of Ruth in Kentucky, Michigan, Nevada and Mississippi?

Once we were married and the children came along, that pastime dwindled because of other commitments. While his energies were mainly directed toward his family and career, with some time spent on amassing baseball cards and certain coins, I knew that ultimately something would come along that would pique his interest. Knowing his economical nature, I wasn't surprised when, with the advent of double coupons at the supermarket, his next obsession was born.

One or two nights a week he can be found sitting on the floor of his den, scissors in hand and surrounded by piles of newspaper inserts. I can tell by the expression on his face whether it's going to be a good or mediocre visit to the check-out counter.

Again his organizational skills come into play with this endeavor. All the coupons are categorically placed in envelopes that are alphabetically stacked in a large box. That container goes to the supermarket whenever he does. The first and only time I took the box to the store, I left it in the grocery cart as I went out of the store. Luckily a call to the manager revealed it had been turned in, so his collection and our marriage were saved.

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My friends tell me how fortunate I am not to have to do the bulk of the grocery shopping, but there are drawbacks. We don't need, nor do we have space for, 20 jars of spaghetti sauce or 18 rolls of paper towels. But it's the cat food (we don't have any pets) and the diapers (our children are teen-agers) that really set me off. My assertions that ''we're not saving money if you buy items we don't need'' are met with assurances that he knows people who can use them and after all, the products are just about free.

While coupons bring savings, they also create embarrassment. When I accompany my spouse to the market, which is rare, he delights in surveying the contents of other shoppers' wagons to see if he has coupons for the products they are purchasing. I cringe as he accosts them to share his booty, but the hobby has increased his circle of friends. He's met many people in the aisles of the stores, and a talk before the local women's club resulted in a bevy of swapping activity. Women, stacks of coupons in hand, knock on our door, and I have explicit instructions on which ones they are to receive in the exchange.

Each outing to the market entails hours of standing before the items in question, debating which size would be best to buy. I have no patience for this time-consuming activity, but I must admit that his efforts pay off. On most trips he realizes savings of $30 to $40.

While coupons are a major source of enjoyment for my husband, bottles and cans have become his No. 1 recreational priority. In 1985, when the state enacted its bottle bill, our 10-year old son began collecting the containers and redeeming them for the nickel deposit. His goal was to buy a Mercedes-Benz when he reached 16.

Eric's enthusiams for the activity was short-lived, but his father was quick to fill the void. Now, whenever he has some free time and feels the need to get out and walk, he pursues what has come to be known around our house as canning.

First and foremost is the profit derived from the hobby, and while Eric may not be seen behind the wheel of a Mercedes when he's ready to drive, he will no doubt have some form of transportation to show off to his friends. Many people are quick to throw out empties, not willing to take the time and effort to clean, store and return them for a meager nickel, but my husband knows nickels quickly add up to dollars. His perseverance and foresight have paid off; Eric's car account now has a balance of $6,800.

In pursuing this quest, my husband claims to have received a great deal more than money. As a school principal, much of his time is spent under pressure. This diversion allows for exercise, relaxation and interaction with a variety of people he would never have a chance to meet. He has also done a great many undocumented studies on the drinking habits of the American people, which he is quick to share with anyone who will listen. And, of course, he is pleased to be doing his small part to help clean up the environment.

While he often just walks along the roads of our town, his largest hauls come from scouring state parks during summer weekends. Dressed in old clothes, he rummages through garbage pails, seeking his finds. While many onlookers shake their heads, no doubt as an expression of sympathy for this poor fellow who must be down and out on his luck, my husband inwardly chuckles. He loves to imagine their reaction if they were to recognize him when registering their children at his school.

Her dad's hobby has brought some mortification to our college-aged daughter, whose male friends have sometimes been recruited to help carry and hose down some of the bounty. I, of course, decline all invitations to accompany him on these excursions and direct my energies into making up believable excuses why we can't attend social functions on summer weekends.

I suppose I shouldn't complain. He could have worse habits, but I can't help bristle when there's no room in the cupboards because of dozens of jars of peanut butter or salad dressing, and the mounds of empty cans that line our backyard.

A version of this article appears in print on February 4, 1990, on Page CN12 of the National edition with the headline: CONNECTICUT OPINION; The Methodical Ways of a Collector. Order Reprints|Today's Paper|Subscribe